CHAPTER THIRTY-4
Facing the bathroom mirror after a night of violent crying is just one more slap in the face when the body thinks it has had enough. Diana crept with caution into the truth chamber to behold exactly how much havoc her tantrum had wreaked on her face. It was a different kind of "walk of shame" than the one she was always reading about in her magazines; for, unlike the post-coital, Aren't-I-a-naughty-girl? strut back to one's car, apartment or dorm room, this was a totally self-inflicted shame in which it only took one to tango. And pink, puffy eyes and a Rudolph nose were hardly the rewards a devastated woman deserved after a night of binge crying. If only the catharsis could help accelerate weight loss or serve as a chemical peel for the face, then the hours of hysterical sobbing wouldn't seem like such an evil prank. After all, the body doesn't go through hell to actually look like hell—it goes through hell in hopes of looking great.
Diana lifted her eyes to the medicine cabinet mirror to discover that her hours of torment had not only failed to award her a single physical benefit, but that hell also looked worse than she remembered. A long time had passed since her last misery fest, which had been pre-pregnancy-turned-cancer-scare, pre-azaleas, pre-life-affirming-apocalypse, pre-Barry-reunion, and pre-TJ-heart-break. But if the night before had taught her anything, it was that no matter how hard she worked, and no matter how much she wanted to, she would never truly forget where she came from. For in the full spirit of her old masochistic self, Diana had suffered through a fifteen-minute car ride from the bar to her apartment, choking back all emotion and clenching her temples and teeth to prevent an accidental outburst just so that she could savor every moment of her tearful fit—uninterrupted—in the comfort of her own home. And when she did get home, all she could do was slam the door shut and fall to the floor in a flood of endless tears and inquisition.
Why in the world had she ever thought she'd be good enough for TJ? Were her eyes going? Was she certifiable? Would she not have to be either blind or insane, or both, to think that such an Adonis would ever wish to be seen anywhere but in a dark, drunken bedroom with a woman so un-Aphrodite, a woman so unlike Michele? And what was that all about? The man had been in love with someone else this entire time? When he'd kissed her, when he'd licked his lips over her less-than-perfect, control-top-panty hose-inscribed body, when he'd been inside of her on the very sheets she slept on every night, when he disappeared, when he didn't show up at Scott's . . .that whole time he had a girlfriend that he was about to propose marriage to?
Why had she been such an idiot? Was she the stupidest woman on earth or was it just God's way that the moment she started feeling confident and happy it would all be taken away from her with a wave of a diamond ring? How did she become a cheap game piece in some twisted couple's sparring match? How was it that she could go from a woman who hadn't had sex in fifteen years to a woman who was viewed as discarded goods by an entire group of guys and, most likely, as a slut by the girl who had the body, hair, face, mannerisms and man that she wanted? How could she have suddenly gone from Born-Again-Virgin (although of the by-any thing-but-choice variety) to Totally Outcast Tramp, cast into the most traumatic kind of humiliation over one, count it, ONE sexual encounter? What about the lady at the dry cleaners who had had nine? Where was her punishment? Where was her exaggeratedly more attractive competition saying "Mine"? Why wasn't the world laughing at her? What invisible toes had Diana stepped on to incur such devastating upset after only one little fling that had probably meant more to her than all nine of that other lady's flings put together? And why was it suddenly a "little fling"? Because that was all it had been to TJ? Or because it was over? And what was with the word "over" anyway? Was "over" not the most hopeless word in the English Ianguage? Who even invented the word "over" in the first place? Some sadistic, nihilistic bastard who thought it would be fun to cut the skimpy thread of meaning and aspiration that people like Diana believed still existed in the world? Some prick who wanted the believers to have absolutely nothing left to hold on to, nothing left to believe in, and nothing left to live for?
The only thing Diana had known for sure, as her tantrum subsided into the post-traumatic fog that would shortly be followed by sleep, was that the word "over" was definitely invented by a man, and most likely a good-looking one that, if she could travel back in time, would have been way out of her league. And now, now that she was awake and there were no tears left to cry, now that all was said and done with her and TJ, now that she could see the battle scars she'd given her face, she was able to understand the message in all of this: Life Sucked. It sucked for a lot of obvious reasons—she'd grown up without a father, had a mother who was a piercing pain in the ass, had known what it was like to be fat, and had had her heart plucked out and shit on by the white knight that was supposed to make all of that other stuff okay.
But at the moment, life sucked for a far less obvious reason. It sucked because in her rush to throw herself onto the floor and cry, she'd gotten out of her car without remembering to take her diary out of the glove compartment. And now that her mind was clear and her self-pity had solidified into anger, she wanted to fill those empty pages with the truth of how rotten her new bedroom buddy had turned out to be. But, of course, the thought of opening her apartment door and descending the stairs into the wretched sunlight was just too overwhelming a concept, nauseating in fact, because it would involve the risk of being seen, therefore requiring some beautification efforts on her part, and she knew she couldn't lift a hairbrush right now. However, for reasons she didn't have the energy to philosophize, being seen looking like pure hell actually seemed somewhat less horrendous than lifting a hairbrush. Besides, she had fallen asleep with her Saturday night outfit on, so she was dressed, and her hair didn't really look that bad. And since it was early on Sunday morning, if she went quickly, she probably wouldn't even see anyone. However, totally contrary to plan, Diana's great escape was cut short when she opened the door to find Mrs. Bartle standing outside of it with her hand raised, about to knock.
"Diana, what's wrong?" she gasped, stepping inside. "You look like hell! "The two of them stood there in silence while Diana tried to find a way to begin. "Do you want to talk about this, dear?" Mrs. Bartle asked gently, placing her hand on Diana's shoulder. "Because we could just sit down and not talk." She smiled cheerfully. "I've rented Gentlemen Prefer Blondes."
"Except they don't," Diana muttered softly, thinking of the raven Michele.
"What's that, dear?" Mrs. Bartle asked, straining her neck to listen.
"He— "Diana stammered. "TJ—he's—" Her chest was heaving. She was extremely short of breath and wanted so badly not to break down and cry in front of Mrs. Bartle.
"He's what, dear? Here, come sit down." Mrs. Bartle led her to the couch.
"He's engaged, Mrs. Bartle!" Diana blurted, falling into hysterical sobs.
"Oh, Diana, are you sure?"
"Yes—yes—I'm sure." Diana had trouble getting the words out. Suddenly, she wanted to tell her friend everything, but every time she went to speak, she'd start gasping for air all over again. However, it only took a couple of tries for Mrs. Bartle to realize that Diana really did want to talk about it, and so she took the lead.
"Did you see him?" Mrs. Bartle asked. Diana nodded. "And he was with somebody else?"
"Yes," Diana choked.
"And this other girl, did he kiss her?" Diana nodded again, clenching her eyes shut in a desperate attempt to get the image out of her mind. "Was she wearing a ring?"
"YES!" Diana bawled, throwing her head forward as her shoulders shook up and down, almost violently.
Mrs. Bartle cradled her young friend in her tiny arms, ssh-ing and there, there-ing her until the wild sobs subsided into sniffles. "Diana," she began, once she knew her friend was calm enough to hear her advice, "listen to me." Lifting Diana's face to meet her own, she continued. "You did absolutely nothing wrong to deserve this. What we're dealing with here is simply a rotten apple." Diana looked at Mrs. Bartle curiously and, in spite of her anguish, couldn't help but smile a little. "Okay, so my metaphors are as old as I am," Mrs. Bartle joked, "but he's still a . . . a . . . well, Diana, let me be frank. The boy is a butt hole." Diana began to laugh, which made Mrs. Bartle laugh, too. And while they laughed, they hugged, and Mrs. Bartle helped Diana dry her tears. "Now, listen to me," Mrs. Bartle resumed seriously, cupping Diana's face in her warm and comforting hands. "Do not lose sight of everything you've worked for and all that you've gained—and you know what I mean—just because some butt hole happened to miss the boat."
Even in the midst of her heartwrenching breakdown, Diana was still blown away by her friend's intuitive wisdom. There were so many things Diana had never told her, but she knew them all. She knew that Diana had made a decision and had carried out a plan to turn her life around, a plan that had been entirely successful until now. One of Diana's biggest fears in this whole love triangle mess had been that she would slip back into her old self, and that she'd start eating incredibly decadent food again, and gain all of her weight back, and start dreaming about azaleas and blimps and anything else that could take her away from this planet. And despite her vow that she would never go backward, it had started to seem like going backward made more sense than moving forward, especially when the odds seemed to be telling her that she was a loser destined to fail at anything else she ever tried, just like she'd failed at TJ. She'd seriously begun wondering what the point was of pushing onward when more heartache was just around the corner, and had been hanging on by a string of self-respect as her only means of not giving up on the person she had created, the person she had begun to like. And here was Mrs. Bartle, her true fairy godmother if ever she had one, telling her that it was not okay to give up and that, more importantly, she had someone out there who realized all the work she'd done to change her life, someone who recognized where she'd succeeded, someone to help her hold on to that string—someone who'd never let her fall.
"I won't lose sight of everything I've worked for, Mrs. Bartle. I promise," Diana said. And it felt good to make that promise.
"Or all that you've gained," Mrs. Bartle reminded her.
"Or all that I've gained."
"Just because . . ." Mrs. Bartle hinted.
"Just because—"
"Some butt hole missed the boat!" they both finished together.
It was not the first time that Mrs. Bartle's words had given her a promise to live by.